Bloodlines
by President Luthor
Summary: A trip to Metropolis Museum sheds light on the rivalry between the Luthors and Gotham's Waynes. Their families have served as allies and fought as enemies. Will this baggage doom Lex's friendship with Clark? COMPLETE Aug20'02
1. CH. 1

BACKGROUND: The fall semester has begun. As part of Metropolis' 'Heritage Days' festival, Luthor Corp. has flung open the doors of the museum. Smallville High has joined a state-wide excursion to the city's fall festival. A painting sheds light on the bitter feud between Lionel Luthor and his Gotham rival, the late Thomas Wayne, Bruce's father. Their families - each one a legend on the American continent - have paid for that success. With their blood. From the first shots of the American Revolution, to the US Civil War, to the tense, soul-searching, post-Vietnam era of the 1970s, the Waynes and the Luthors have served as allies ... and fought as enemies. It's not a sequel, but a companion piece to my Bruce fics. I've made reference to the Wayne-Luthor feud, but I haven't explored it.  
  
Until now.  
  
This is their story - with implications for the doomed friendship between Lex and Clark ...  
  
[Luthor Hall, Metropolis Museum]  
  
Chloe raced through Luthor Hall. "This is sooo cool!" she exclaimed. She pressed her face against the glass case. Inside, there were relics unearthed from a recent excavation in the city. An old British fort, dated from the Seven Years' War, lay dormant for almost 300 years.  
  
Now set free, thanks to Lionel Luthor's plans (now put on hold) to build a corporate plaza on the site.  
  
Pete wrinkled his nose. "An old ratty jacket? A few musket balls? Man, that stuff is old."  
  
Clark looked at another display. A faded, frayed Union Jack, a tarnished belt buckle. "From the Seven Years' War?"  
  
"Well actually," Lex interrupted, "only the Europeans and Canadians give it such a grandiose name. We Yankees know it as the French and Indian War. Britain and France fought for possession of America. The site of Metropolis was a rather minor skirmish. Quebec was the real prize. We wouldn't take centre stage until the Boston Tea Party."  
  
Clark was fascinated. "So this fort was still in British hands at the time of the Revolution?"  
  
Lex was about to answer when Chloe added, "This was a critical British base then. It gave them a route to the Mississippi basin. George Washington knew that the Patriots had to take the fort ..."  
  
Lex interrupted. "Fort Orange, named after William of Orange. Chloe's right. It was here that the British resupplied and launched guerrilla attacks against American frontier posts."  
  
Pete looked at another case. A British musket crossed against a Yankee battle flag. "Brother against brother. Intense."  
  
"So did the fort finally fall to the Patriots?" Clark wondered.  
  
Lex frowned. "No. The fort held throughout the Revolution."  
  
Chloe walked towards a painting. It must be from Luthor's private collection, she mused. A portrait of some American officers, circa 1779.  
  
Five of them. The man in the middle was obviously George Washington.  
  
"Found something interesting, Chloe?" Clark asked.  
  
"Something's oddly familiar about two of these officers," Chloe muttered.  
  
"So you've noticed a portrait of my forefather, Elijah Luthor. Our family records show that he was a blacksmith by trade. He enlisted with the Continental Army just before the battle of Lexington. He had become a colonel by war's end."  
  
Clark peered closer at the painting. The officer in the distance. The dark hair. "That's a Wayne!"  
  
Lana wandered near the painting. "As in the Waynes of Gotham? It doesn't seem likely. Bruce Wayne's forefathers were fighting the British in New York and Delaware."  
  
"Look, I know Bruce is your friend," Pete chided, "but, c'mon. What would a Wayne be doing out here on the frontier - when all the action was in New England."  
  
"Intriguing," Lex stated. "You might be on to something, Clark. I'll have some of our historians go through the city archives."  
  
Perhaps by going through the past, Lex thought, I can better understand the present. My father is a sworn enemy of the Wayne family. Maybe there's more to it than personal dislike.  
  
"I've heard the Waynes began the Revolution on the British side," Chloe thought aloud.  
  
"That's impossible," Clark shook his head, "the Waynes were in almost every major battle, right up to Yorkton."  
  
"That wasn't always the case," Lex stated tersely. "The Wayne family had been loyal to the Crown since the days of Elizabeth I. They had to make a choice when war broke out in the colonies. At the start, the choice was life and liberty, or King and country." He sat on a nearby leather bench. Clark, Chloe, Lana and Pete gathered around, as Lex explained how the Luthors and Waynes began their legendary stories on opposite sides of the War of Independence ...  
  
[1775, Concord]  
  
The horse galloped through the streets just before dawn. "The British are coming! The British are coming!" Edward Wayne woke up. He had ordered his brothers and sisters to stay indoors. Their parents had died the previous winter of scurvy. Edward, the eldest son, was duty-bound to keep their family together. Safe. Most of their neighbours sided with the Patriot rebels.  
  
I am a Loyalist, Edward told himself. These vagabonds want to rule the colonies as if they were kings. His family was also alienated by faith. The fiercely Protestant town residents shunned and ridiculed the Waynes, one of the few Catholic families in Concord.  
  
Frantic knocking rang throughout the house. Edward pulled back the flinklock of his musket.  
  
"Friend or foe!" Edward demanded.  
  
"Friend, dammit! It's Jack Cartwright!" Edward lifted the bar lock and let his friend in. Jack was a strict Puritan, but was one of the few townsfolk who had befriended the Waynes.  
  
"I have good news. I've heard that General Gage is sending some British soldiers to put down this rebellion. It'll be all over by suppertime. I've gathered a few of the Loyalist men together. We're going to ambush the rebels so-called 'colonial' militia. Join us!"  
  
Edward paused. He had nine brothers and sisters to protect. "I will give you what spare ammunition I have. But I must remain here, should the rebels pass this way."  
  
Jack nodded as he packed the spare musket balls into his pockets. "Take care, Edward. This'll be over soon."  
  
Edward sat in front of the window. They came at dawn.  
  
General Gage's troops marched in line. Pipers followed with the Union Jack and regimental colours. They were here to arrest the colonial militia's leaders and confiscate any arms stockpiled by the rebels.  
  
A British officer in a black-skinned hat pounded on his door. "Are you a Loyalist house?"  
  
Edward waved. "Yes, we are. George III, by God's grace, is our lord and master. I must remain here to defend my house."  
  
The British officer nodded and waved his troops forward. In the distance, a volley of musket shots echoed through the trees. I wonder how Jack is doing, Edward wondered.  
  
A stray musket ball cracked through the window. The battle is coming closer, Edward feared.  
  
He poured gunpowder into his musket, and primed it. Pray for us, blessed mother, he mumbled.  
  
"What's going on?" Sara, the eldest of the Wayne daughters, peered from the kitchen.  
  
"Stay inside!" Edward barked. "The battle draws near." He lifted the wooden bar lock and shouldered his musket.  
  
British redcoats were fleeing. Shots continued from the rear. A pair of redcoats knelt to return fire. One managed to flee. The other tried to join him, but an accurate volley toppled him onto the dirt road.  
  
Edward ran to the dying soldier. "What's going on?"  
  
The soldier coughed a mouthful of blood. "Colonials ... ambush ... caught us in the trees ... lost 200 ..." The shots came closer. He tried to pass his musket to Wayne. "You fight them ... fight them!" A slight gurgle, and the soldier passed into eternity.  
  
Edward, with blood rushing to his head, pushed the bullet down with the ramrod, knelt and aimed his musket at the first of the advancing colonials. The bullet landed between the enemy's eyes.  
  
He poured another pouch of gunpowder in the musket. Faster, Edward. Faster! Another shove of the ramrod and he aimed again.  
  
He heard a shriek. Sara! He turned towards his house. Colonial minutemen were torching his roof.  
  
"No!" Edward ran to stop them, but one of the minutemen swung a musket butt against his head. The militia had rounded up his family, separating the boys from their older sisters.  
  
Edward scowled. "Traitors! You owe your allegiance to your King!"  
  
The minutemen laughed. "We are free men now. No lord, no king has the right to restrict our God-given liberties." Their lieutenant directed them to line up the boys against the fence. "We cannot allow these boys to grow up. In a few years, they'll be old enough to join those redcoats. Ready ... aim ..."  
  
"Please," Edward sobbed. "Spare the boys. Kill me if you must. Let them live."  
  
A group of minutemen dragged Sara and her two sisters out onto the road. "What shall we do with these papist wenches?"  
  
The lieutenant roared in laughter. "They, too, are the enemy. Treat them like the English whores they are. Ravish them to death."  
  
"No!" Edward rushed towards the rowdy militia. A pistol shot silenced them.  
  
Another officer stepped forward. "Civilians, loyalist or otherwise, are not to be harassed. If we are to win this war, we need the people's support!"  
  
He took off a glove and smacked the lieutenant's face. "You would dishonour these women, while in the same breath, proclaim the right to liberty!" He instructed the militia to release Wayne's family.  
  
Edward crumpled on the ground. "Thank you. Thank you, kind sir."  
  
The officer helped him up. "Captain Elijah Luthor, Continental Army. Please accept my apologies. Many of these militia are little more than uneducated farmhands. I respect your loyalty to the British, flawed though it may be. But this town is now under the authority of the Continental Army. Gather your possessions and leave by dusk. I grant you safe passage until then. Remain, and the sin of what comes to pass lies on your head."  
  
Edward gathered his family and whatever belongings could be saved. He stopped the wagon and took one last glance at Concord. My home. Our family has lived here for over 100 years. He seethed in rage as the cursed stars- and-stripes banner of the Patriots flapped atop the town hall.  
  
He could tell which houses were Loyalist. They were put to the torch.  
  
Sara huddled amongst her siblings in the rear. "What will become of us, Edward?" Sara cried.  
  
"We go to New York. It's still in British hands," Edward replied.  
  
Further down the road, he spotted Jack Cartwright. Tarred and feathered, he hung from the branch of a large oak tree. A crude sign 'Loyalist pig' hung around his neck.  
  
At that moment, Edward knew that he would not hide. Once the family has been sent to a safe, British colony, I shall remain here in America. To fight for my king.  
  
If it is indeed the Almighty's will, I shall kill Yankees along the way. 


	2. CH. 2

[Luthor Hall, Metropolis Museum]  
  
"Wow!" Chloe exclaimed. "A Luthor was at Concord!"  
  
Lex chuckled. "The shot heard round the world. So the legend goes. I'm sure most of the East Coast bluebloods would like to claim that their forefathers were there. This recent excavation may finally put to rest any speculation about my family's origins."  
  
"I almost expected the Luthors to be backing the redcoats, considering conquest is something close to your father's heart," Pete remarked, only half-jokingly.  
  
"Pete," Clark admonished, "I'd like to think Lex doesn't take after his father in some respects."  
  
"The War of Independence wasn't a clear-cut as that," Chloe replied, "Both sides sacked towns and persecuted 'traitors' to their cause."  
  
"It's war," Lex interjected, "the Geneva Convention didn't exactly exist back then. And at that time, Britain was the greatest power in the world. Defeating the patriots should have been a cakewalk."  
  
"But it wasn't," Clark replied, as he examined the faded redcoat unearthed from its 300-year-old sleep.  
  
No, Lex thought, it wasn't easy at all ...  
  
[1776, Boston]  
  
British reinforcements were late in coming. Colonial militias stalked all the main roads. Edward Wayne wisely chose not to press on to New York. The British still held Boston.  
  
For now. An officer by the name of Washington had taken command of the Continental Army. The Yankees had beaten the British at Bunker Hill. Now, they were prepared to bombard Boston with cannon fire from Dorchester Heights.  
  
General Howe, the new British commander, chose to evacuate his troops. This would be Edward's lone opportunity to save his family.  
  
Sara waded through the panicked crowd at Boston Harbour. She waved frantically. "Edward!"  
  
Edward hugged his sister. "The fleet is departing for Nova Scotia. The naval port of Halifax. The Canadas will be safe ... they've rejected this foolish rebellion."  
  
"Please, don't stay. Come with us!" Sara pleaded.  
  
"No! I would have been dead in Concord, had I joined Jack. He did not die in vain. The Yanks took our house. Our lives! I must make them pay!" Sara began to weep.  
  
"You must be strong," Edward insisted, " For us. For the boys. You are now head of the family. I trust that you will defend it with the same dignity our father showed against the French so many years ago." He handed her a bulky pistol.  
  
"If the time comes, do not hesitate to use this. If things go badly, the Americans may move north."  
  
He waved as his entire family boarded a rowboat that would take them to a British frigate. And freedom.  
  
Edward eagerly enlisted in one of the Loyalist militias that fought alongside the British. The local newsletters had talked of Yankee victories in the South. A Patriot regiment, commanded by a Captain Luthor, had defeated Loyalist partisans in the Carolinas and Virginia.  
  
He had hoped to reverse those victories, but there was a greater threat. The Yankees were moving to take Quebec. Edward and his band of loyalists harassed the Continental Army's supply lines, depriving Benedict Arnold's invading force of badly needed ammunition.  
  
Defeated, the Yankees returned to New England. Edward's militia - now known as Wayne's Rangers - attached themselves to a British invasion force that swept from Canada south to Albany. New York was within reach. But that dastardly Benedict Arnold put up a stiff resistance and forced the British back to Quebec.  
  
Edward, commissioned as a militia captain by General Howe, could have joined in the retreat. He remained. The British were gaining the upper hand. They still threatened to sweep through New York and crush the Patriots from behind. Although the rebel Congress had fled, Howe captured Philadelphia. Washington's army were outflanked and retreated.  
  
Wayne's Rangers had hoped to strike a crippling blow against the fleeing Yankees. But Washington had heard of Edward's troublesome feats in New York. He had arranged an ambush.  
  
With the daring Edward Wayne as the prize. Yankee snipers decimated his Loyalist force near Valley Forge.  
  
"As a gentleman of honour," Washington declared, "I offer you the opportunity to surrender. Do so, and I spare your company of men. Your injured will receive treatment. Promise not to escape, and I will have you treated with the dignity accorded your rank."  
  
Edward glanced at his men. The bitter fall cold had stricken many from their ranks. The ambush wiped out half of them in a matter of hours. A dozen were crying for help, for their mothers, for something to stop the pain.  
  
"Refuse ... choose to resist," Washington growled, "and every single one of you will die here today." The snipers prepared to rain a hail of deadly volleys upon them.  
  
Survive, Edward told himself. I will not have my men die like dogs in these woods.  
  
Edward pulled out his sword, turned the hilt towards Washington and handed the sword to him.  
  
"I surrender Wayne's Rangers to your mercy, General," Edward began, "and I give you my parole: my promise not to escape. I trust that you will tend to my men."  
  
A Yankee soldier removed Edward's pistol. "Keep your sword," Washington replied, "as a sign of respect. You have put your company's interests ahead of your own." The general instructed his men to grant Edward all the courtesies befitting an army officer.  
  
Washington had little to offer. The retreat to Valley Forge was miserable. The coming winter left them with few supplies and low ammunition. The winter brought more sickness and death to Washington's beleaguered army.  
  
As a prisoner, Edward could do nothing but tend to his men ... and observe the stubborn dedication of these American soldiers. To pass the long winter nights, Washington gave his prisoner several books.  
  
Thomas Payne. Jean-Jacques Rousseau. Patriot newsletters. Essays from the Revolution's leaders: Benjamin Franklin, Thomas Jefferson.  
  
Edward read that Yankee militias in the south continued to resist British attacks. "I shall promote this New England officer, one Elijah Luthor," Washington remarked during a dinner with his officers. With a stroke of a pen, Luthor gained a major's rank and his own regiment. When the British threatened to retake Virginia and the Carolinas, Washington sent orders to Luthor: hold the line, at all costs! Congress also received word from the French that the British navy may try to seize the Mississippi, using old Fort Orange to harass Yankee forces on the frontier from Mohawk territory to the east coast.  
  
Edward learned of British atrocities. Summary executions of Yankee soldiers, for 'treason'. Attempts on both sides to use the native Indians to their advantage - promising land, self-government and other hollow schemes. The concept of the 'inalienable rights' of man began to appeal to the Loyalist. Why should a distant king care about the sufferings of subjects half a world away? We have died from scurvy, while his palace court has dined on the very fruits we have harvested!  
  
Spring came. Rebirth. Edward wrote to his sister, Sara, in Halifax: "Please do not hate me. I could not bear it. As a prisoner of the Americans, I have seen first-hand why they feel they must fight. They are Englishmen no longer. They are Americans. They fight to live as free men. This is their country now."  
  
And mine, he thought. The Waynes built their lives on their own. For over a hundred years, they endured the discrimination of the anti-Catholic New England administration. Our family has served the Crown loyally. They repaid us with neglect. Only when their precious cotton and tobacco plantations in the South were threatened, did they lift a finger and deployed British reinforcements.  
  
When Edward told his surviving Rangers that he wished to cross sides and join the Americans, a sergeant spat at him. "I saw what they did to our homes in Boston, in Philadelphia, in Albany. Set ablaze, they were! Our property stolen. Our women humiliated. And you now dare to sympathize with their cause! This country does not want us. I am a Loyalist to death, even if you no longer are. God curse you, Edward Wayne!"  
  
The momentum shifted in the Americans' favour. While his men rotted on a prison ship, Edward Wayne joined the Continental Army. He fought in the critical battle of Saratoga ... and remembered the face of every redcoat he killed. Last year, he would have counted them as friends.  
  
They were the enemy now. Servants of a foreign master.  
  
Years passed. Captain Wayne and his new Yankee regiment helped to drive the British out of every New England port, town and city from New Jersey to Maine. Luthor kept his word and held the Yankee line in the South.  
  
Cornwallis, the new British commander, wanted to defend Fort Gotham, a strategic base that connected British supply lines between Virginia and New Jersey.  
  
Washington mustered a large force - 8,000 men - to take the fort. There were rumours of reinforcements from Nova Scotia, sent to relieve the besieged British garrison. Washington summoned Luthor to join this critical campaign.  
  
"We would like a portrait for the paper in Boston," the reporter had asked Washington the night before the battle.  
  
"I did not fight this war alone," Washington insisted, "Include these officers, too."  
  
Luthor proudly stood right beside General Washington. "We are going to make history with this republic," Elijah beamed.  
  
Edward reluctantly stood in the rear as the portrait artist sealed his destiny in oil and canvas. The Waynes, a loyal English family who - despite their Catholicism - had backed Protestant Elizabeth I against the Stuarts. England should be ruled from London, not Rome, they had professed. The Waynes, who were among the founding fathers of New England. And the gallant William Wayne, Edward's father, who had scaled the cliffs of Quebec and drove the French off the continent forever.  
  
With this painting, all that became irrelevant. The Waynes would be known as patriots of the revolution. Freedom fighters. His thoughts soared. Across the hills, the ocean. To his family in Halifax. His sister, Sara, wrote less frequently. In her last letter, she told him the younger brothers were coming of age. They would join the British Army to fight the Yankees.  
  
As the artist sketched their faces, Edward shed a tear.  
  
Please God, spare me the possibility that I may yet face them in battle ...  
  
[Luthor Hall, 2002]  
  
Chloe nudged Lex's arm. "So? What happened then?"  
  
Lex paused. "Well, you know the rest. Edward Wayne and his troops took the fort. The Waynes would go down in history as the founding fathers of Gotham City. When Fort Gotham fell, Washington sent Major Luthor to capture Fort Orange. That fort remained in British hands until the end of the war. Wayne witnessed Cornwallis' surrender at Yorkton, effectively sealing his legend in American history. "  
  
"Did Edward ever see his family again?" Clark wondered.  
  
Lex gazed at the frayed Union Jack in the display case. The flag that defiantly flew above Fort Orange - and denied the Luthors their well-earned place in American myth.. "A sniper with the British 'Fighting Fortieth' regiment was about to put an end to Washington's career. Edward gave the order to fire. He saved Washington's life."  
  
"Cool," Pete mused, as Chloe and Lana gasped in amazement.  
  
"Not really," Lex stated, "the sniper that Edward's men fired upon ... was one Pvt. James Wayne, 40th regiment of Nova Scotia. Edward's youngest brother. From Charleston to Boston, the Wayne name became synonymous with 'American patriot'."  
  
"But at a high price," Chloe stated.  
  
"You see, that's what makes a person great," Lex replied, "Sacrifice. Perseverance. Risk. Wayne could have played it safe. Climbed the ranks of His Majesty's army. He knew his destiny - and seized it, despite his betrayal of family bonds. If Edward had been sent to Fort Orange instead, Major Luthor may have held the privilege of witnessing the birth of a new country at Yorkton."  
  
"Tough break," Pete added. Sounds like sour grapes to me, he thought to himself.  
  
"Enjoy the rest of the museum," Lex glanced at his watch, "I have to return a call to the city archivist. I'll catch up with you guys later."  
  
Pete rolled his eyes. "The way he was talking ... it's as if his family won the Revolution on its own!"  
  
"The Luthors are almost as legendary as the Waynes," Lana replied, "He must be thrilled that these excavations are giving him some insight into his ancestors."  
  
Clark stepped aside. "It's nice to have roots. To know where you're from. Why you're here." Lex could touch these relics. Make a connection to his past.  
  
He was envious. The Clark Kent history began in Smallville.  
  
His true ancestors were not from this continent. Not from this world. 


	3. CH. 3

[Rare documents vault, Metropolis Museum, 9:40 p.m.]  
  
Lex hauled a locked metal box onto a wooden table. "You don't have to stick around here, Clark. Luthor Corp. is footing the bill for a pizza party at the hotel where your class is staying. You should live it up. It's not every day you're in Metropolis."  
  
"I'll catch up with the gang in a bit," Clark replied, "I just think it's cool that you're uncovering pieces of your family's history." He carried a draped painting into the room.  
  
"Well, then," Lex unlocked the box. "You can help me sort out these letters. They were sitting in one of our warehouses in Louisiana."  
  
Clark sat on a stool, put on a pair of cloth gloves and carefully handled one letter with a pair of tweezers.  
  
"'October 30, 1862'," Clark began to read, "'Greetings, General Lee' ... Lee? These date from the Civil War!"  
  
Lex glanced over his shoulder. "Everyone knows this part of Luthor history. Nathaniel Luthor, southern gentleman-officer. Reputed womanizer and drunkard. And one of the finest fighting men in the Confederate Army. What does the rest of the letter say?"  
  
Clark peered at the elaborate writing. "'... I applaud the recent successes of your Army of Northern Virginia. Gotham is half a day's march away. Our scouts report federal troops massing in the woodlands just beyond the town limits. It will be All Hallows Eve tomorrow. I fear this does not bode well for us. All we can do is put trust in Providence, for next suppertime ... we shall have had a bloody affair. Yours truly, Colonel Nathaniel Luthor, Kansas Volunteers.'"  
  
Lex examined the yellowed parchment. "It looks like you've come across some Confederate dispatches from the good colonel himself! At the Gotham battle, no less." He looked at the painting of his infamous forefather: handlebar moustache, a hand fidgeting on a sabre, Confederate colonel's hat cocked defiantly to the side of his head.  
  
He frowned. "We know who won that battle ..."  
  
[1862, outskirts of Gotham Town, two miles from Union lines]  
  
General Lee had suffered tremendous losses. One-fifth of his army - 20,000 men - had fallen in defense of the Confederacy. But, he prevented the Union capture of Richmond, the heart of southern resistance. He wanted to give Col. Luthor's battalion some needed reinforcements - perhaps a cavalry company. The defense of the Confederate capital, however, was paramount.  
  
"Dear Colonel," Lee wrote, "I fear that I cannot spare more troops. Richmond cannot fall. Should federal troops hold Gotham Town, I fear our position will be most precarious. Take the battle to the enemy. Perhaps then, they will reconsider their strategy! I trust that Kansas' sons will give the Yanks a good thrashing. Your friend, Robert Lee."  
  
The courier galloped through the night, evading the main roads - and Union scouts. He was half a mile from Col. Luthor's camp when he stumbled into a Union cavalry company. The courier resisted and received a bullet in the back. The cavalry captain delivered the dispatch to the Union commander at Gotham, a Colonel Jeremiah Wayne.  
  
Jeremiah smiled. "It will be All Hallows Eve tomorrow. We have those rebs now!"  
  
There was a faint mist at dawn, October 31, 1862. Nathaniel looked at his pocket watch. He was certain that reinforcements would be on their way. A solid cavalry corps from Lee's army, in addition to Luthor's assembled Confederate force of 6,000, could surely outmanoeuvre the defenders of Gotham Town. President Lincoln had ordered available Union troops to repel a rebel invasion in Kentucky. The federal garrison could expect no relief for weeks, he thought.  
  
A private galloped towards the camp. "My apologies, colonel, for interrupting your breakfast."  
  
Nathaniel wiped the crumbs of cornbread from his moustache. "Report, soldier."  
  
"Union troops are advancing through the woods," the young private caught his breath, "It looks like the entire garrison is itchin' for a fight!"  
  
"Then they shall have one," Nathaniel Luthor adjusted his hat. He mounted his horse and raised his sabre. A bugle summoned the Kansas Volunteers into line. "Volunteers," Nathaniel bellowed, "if those Billy Yanks are in a hurry to meet the devil, we are obliged not to keep the devil waitin'!" The 6,000-strong Kansas Volunteers cheered.  
  
The army noticed some movement in the woods. It seemed like a dark fog was about to smother them. "Captain!" Nathaniel shouted, then trotted to the front of the ranks. "Prepare to engage the federal troops."  
  
Just behind the tree line, Jeremiah ordered his men to lie low. "Do not fire until I give the order!" he insisted. A crack of rifles broke the morning silence. A few dozen Union troops in the first rank fell in line --- grabbing their chests, their eyes, or their stomachs. The groans of the dying began to take its toll on the garrison's morale.  
  
"First rank, prepare to fire upon the enemy!" Jeremiah ordered. The 5,000 troops of the Gotham garrison fired a deadly volley. Scores of rebel troops collapsed. Screams and moans echoed along the Confederate line.  
  
Nathaniel heard a rumble behind the Union lines. His captain dashed towards him. "Colonel! The Yanks ... they - they have cavalry, by god. Cavalry!"  
  
Jeremiah looked behind him. Lincoln granted permission for 500 cavalry to support the defenders, despite the protests of the Union commander, McClellan.  
  
Nathaniel spurred on his horse. "Volunteers, fire at will!" A spatter of volleys slammed into the Union line. More yelps and groans of agony. The rumble became louder.  
  
A Confederate bugler trumpeted. Nathaniel jabbed his heel into his steed's flanks. "Volunteers, charge!"  
  
Five hundred Union cavalry troops crashed into the front lines of the Volunteers. A few rebels dismounted a Union officer and hacked at him ferociously with their bayonets. Many rebels fled at the fearsome sight of the sabre-wielding horsemen.  
  
"Form square and close ranks!" Nathaniel hacked at the shoulder of a young Union lieutenant, who promptly fell off his mount. Most of the Volunteers huddled in a defensive square, a bristling hedge of bayonets. The cavalry charge had killed hundreds of rebels. There will still about 400 Union cavalry left.  
  
In the melee, Nathaniel forgot about the Gotham troops still in the woods. His mistake, Jeremiah thought. He pulled out his sabre. "Fix bayonets!" he commanded. "Advance. Double-time!" Before the Volunteers could re-form in line, the Union troops were upon them.  
  
On the horizon, the Confederate captain noticed a line of cavalry circling around. "We must signal the retreat, colonel! The cavalry means to outflank us!"  
  
"No!" Nathaniel growled. "We press forth. Gotham must fall, or Richmond surely will!" Bayonets cracked into bone. The fields around Gotham were soaked in blood. Moans drifted through the woods.  
  
Jeremiah and a party of troops had moved to capture the Volunteers' battle flag. No! Nathaniel cursed. He galloped through the mob of death, slicing and chopping a path through the Union lines. A sniper shot the sabre out of his hand.  
  
Only a dozen rebel soldiers protected the colour guard, who huddled pathetically around their flags. Nathaniel pulled out a pistol as Jeremiah planted a sabre tip against the rebel colonel's throat.  
  
"It appears, sir, that we have a draw," Nathaniel snarled.  
  
"Indeed, it is," Jeremiah glared. A bugle trumpeted. The Confederates were calling a retreat.  
  
Both officers withdrew their weapons. Nathaniel reared his horse. "I shall see you again, Col. Wayne, when Lee marches into Washington!"  
  
Jeremiah tapped his sabre hilt to his face in salute. "And I shall see you, Col. Luthor, when we capture President Davis in Richmond!"  
  
A few dozen Union cavalry advanced to clear the field of any lingering rebels. The Confederate battle flags would have been a fine prize, Jeremiah thought, but a victory at Gotham was far more satisfying ...  
  
[Rare documents vault, Metropolis Museum]  
  
"So, did Nathaniel ever meet Jeremiah again in battle?" Clark asked, as he stared at the colonel's portrait.  
  
"Good ol' Col. Luthor saw action in the Battle of Gettysburg," Lex replied. "A Union rifleman shot him through the eye, so that ended his story. Col. Wayne lingered around to participate in the capture of Richmond a few years later. Yet another Luthor missed out on making history. A Wayne, naturally, was there when General Lee finally surrendered. Good thing that Nathaniel pushed for a railway line before the war, or Metropolis might not have made it on the map."  
  
Lex checked his watch. "It's almost 11. I'll have the car come around to drop you off at the hotel. There's still the big parade tomorrow. You won't want to miss that ..."  
  
Clark put on his backpack. "Thanks for letting me help out. I learned a lot." He dashed out of the vault room.  
  
Lex read through the colonel's letters. Why is it that, every time a Luthor had a chance to grasp destiny, it was snatched away. By a Wayne.  
  
God, that's so petty, he laughed to himself. Surely, my father isn't vindictive towards the Waynes because he's harbouring some ancient family slight ...  
  
... Is he? 


	4. CH. 4

[Liberty Drive, Metropolis downtown core]  
  
The class from Smallville High sat in the stands. A brisk wind drove the students together in a huddle.  
  
Pete and Lana carefully climbed the stairs with the hot chocolate. "That's for you, Clark. And the extra marshmallows is Chloe's."  
  
Chloe sipped her drink. "MMmmm. That's good." The parade had begun.  
  
The National Guard led the way -- dressed in crisp uniforms of the Continental Army, 1779. Pipers and drummers marched in step to the martial beat.  
  
In the reviewing stand across the street, - framed in patriotic red, white and blue banners - the mayor of Metropolis waved at the crowd. Beside him were the dignitaries: the police chief, Senator Callahan, Daily Planet editor Perry White ... and Lionel Luthor, event sponsor and one of the city's major employers.  
  
Lex quickly took his seat. Lionel frowned. "I expected you to be prompt. It's our history - Luthor history - they're exalting in this parade!"  
  
"If you were so proud of our ancestry, you wouldn't be pushing to pave over the excavation site," Lex grumbled.  
  
Lionel smirked. "Are you suggesting that I'm 'ashamed' of our family history. A Luthor has been at every pivotal event in American history. Concord, Gettysburg ..."  
  
"... booze smuggling during Prohibition, arms trading in Southeast Asia ..." Lex continued.  
  
"Take a seat," Lionel ordered, "Don't believe everything you read in the papers. It's not all black and white."  
  
"Shades of grey," Lex sighed, "I've heard this tune before. Why don't you stop campaigning and level with me, just this once."  
  
Lionel focused his stare towards the parade. "You would never understand."  
  
Across the street, Pete noticed the heated discussion between father and son. "Looks like Lex and the old man are having a heart-to-heart."  
  
The last of the Kansas Volunteers Civil War re-enactors had just passed. "Everyone knows the Wayne and Luthor legends," Chloe remarked, "but what's the real story? Why is Lionel Luthor such a committed enemy of the Waynes?"  
  
"Well, we've heard Lex's version," Lana added, "Clark, you know Bruce Wayne. Has he ever talked to you about the Luthor-Wayne feud?"  
  
Clark clutched his cup of hot chocolate. "Bruce doesn't tell me much. His dad, Thomas Wayne, used to work for the State department in the late 60s and early 70s. A couple of years before ..."  
  
Chloe gasped. "The Wayne murders in Gotham's Crime Alley! I can see why he would prefer not to relive his early years."  
  
"The 1970s, eh," Pete replied, "Vietnam, Watergate ... maybe Lionel and Mr. Wayne found themselves on opposite sides of the debate then?"  
  
"Perhaps," Clark nodded. He watched as the U.S. Army Rangers from nearby Fort William marched in their camouflaged olive greens. In the reviewing stand, he noticed that Lionel Luthor was visibly uncomfortable.  
  
"Chloe, you did that essay on the Vietnam War," Lana noted, "do you think that was the cause of the rift between Lionel and Thomas."  
  
"Vietnam was a complicated affair," Chloe gazed at the Army Rangers marching in step. "In the late 60s, President Nixon was pledging peace with honour: the beginning of the Vietnamization of the war. We would pull out our troops, as the South Vietnamese army took on more of the ground fighting. Not to mention continued U.S. bombing  
  
in Cambodia and Laos, the secret Phoenix Program, the galvanization of the anti-war movement after the shootings at Kent State and Jackson State College ..."  
  
Clark shook his head in confusion. "My hard drive is crashing with the overload. Run that by me again?"  
  
As the Army Rangers saluted their general in the reviewing stands, Chloe began to explain the endgame: the last gasp of American involvement in Vietnam ...  
  
[West Wing, White House, September 1972]  
  
Thomas Wayne turned up the radio. The Rolling Stones 'Paint It Black'.  
  
"Would you turn down that racket, Tom?" Frank grumbled. He reviewed the intelligence reports. North Vietnamese Army activity was escalating along the Ho Chih Minh trail.  
  
Thomas laughed, then turned down the volume. "C'mon Frank. Get with the times."  
  
"Get with the times," Frank grumbled, "Frank Sinatra. Now that was a man who knew how to swing!"  
  
Thomas smirked. Frank maybe 20 years older than him, but he was one of the finest minds in the U.S. State Department. Frank was a guest lecturer at Georgetown U., when graduate student Thomas was defending his thesis in International Relations. An intelligent man, this Wayne did not strike him as a lazy rich kid -- coasting through  
  
school, through life on his family's name. Frank tapped him for an internship at the State Department. Fortunate for Wayne, since he received his draft card a mere week after he joined the department. Frank quickly had his draft revoked.  
  
Thomas Wayne would serve his country in the diplomatic corps, not in the jungles of Vietnam. In public, Nixon wanted "peace with honour". He also wanted a free South Vietnam. How to reconcile these conflicting goals was the job of the thinkers and strategists in the State Department.  
  
And the Pentagon. They didn't always agree.  
  
Congress has passed the Cooper-Church Amendment, specifically forbidding the use of American troops outside South Vietnam. The amendment left enough elbow room to permit continued bombing of suspected NVA and Viet Cong hideouts in Cambodia and Laos. The Paris peace talks were in a mess. Again.  
  
"You know, the CIA isn't helping us out with this 'Phoenix' program," Thomas complained.  
  
Frank sighed. "The President is committed to the Phoenix Program. He believes that, if we target the pro-Communist guerrillas in the north, we'll weaken their structure."  
  
Thomas examined the huge map of Vietnam on the wall, pegged with a rainbow of thumbtacks. "You're not buying this Phoenix hogwash, are you?"  
  
"You know I could answer that," Frank grinned, "but Kissinger would have my head."  
  
Thomas turned towards the window. These bombings are only going to drive the Cambodians and Laotians into the Communist ranks. With recent revelations about presidential involvement in the burglary at Watergate, the Nixon Administration was rapidly losing public confidence.  
  
As if those dead kids at Kent State weren't proof enough.  
  
The sun was painting a glorious tapestry in the sky. Tomorrow may be a better day ...  
  
[Hong Kong, Victoria Harbour, October 1972]  
  
Lionel Luthor shook hands with the CIA contact, known only as 'Rick'.  
  
Luthor Industries had evolved from a mining and metallurgy consortium in the 1900s into a dominant aerospace and arms manufacturing leader. Armed forces from every NATO country flew, drove, fired, or launched a Luthor product. Lionel was not beyond selling a few products to some Warsaw Pact governments.  
  
In peace time, this would have jeopardized his relations with the Pentagon power-brokers.  
  
With a crippled presidency, and a country at war at home and in godforsaken Indochina, a man of opportunity could make a fortune.  
  
The Phoenix Program, Lionel pondered, was just such an opportunity. American regular infantry could not take the fight to the enemy beyond Vietnam ... to Cambodia and Laos. But secret operatives -- CIA, special forces, South Vietnamese -- could. And did.  
  
They needed weapons. Bombs. The military division of Luthor Industries had what they wanted. Untraceable and cheap (but efficient) AK-47 rifles. High- grade explosives. Anything the CIA wanted.  
  
For a price.  
  
"Pleasure doing business with you," Rick shook Lionel's hand. "The goods are in Dock 59?"  
  
"All accounted for. Get them out of there before the harbour master inspects the warehouses in the morning," Lionel glared. Men like Rick could not be trusted. They lived for thrills. Adventure. A man who acted with abandon had no plan. The Ricks of the world lived and died for the rush, a quick adrenaline hit. They usually lived short lives.  
  
"Off to do your duty for Uncle Sam," Lionel shouted over the whirr of the corporate helicopter.  
  
"We're mounting an operation. Soon," Rick remarked. "But you won't hear about it in the Daily Planet." He saluted mockingly. "It's a secret."  
  
Lionel gave his pilot the thumbs-up. As the helicopter buzzed past the Hong Kong skyline, Lionel couldn't stop smiling.  
  
Let these glory-hounds fight this ridiculous war. Have they not learned from the mistakes of the French two decades ago? Nixon is thinking about pulling out, is he? Kennedy, Johnson ... now Nixon. If three presidents can't win this war, it's not to be won.  
  
Rick, you stupid idiot. Whatever Uncle Sam promised you, I doubt you'll live to get it.  
  
A week later, Thomas Wayne read an intelligence report. A foiled CIA-led, south Vietnamese incursion along the Cambodian border. Hundreds of casualties. The victorious Viet Cong took the decapitated head of one CIA operative - known only as Rick - back to Hanoi as a trophy.  
  
Thomas flung the report on the floor. Frank turned around. "The CIA got us in shit again?"  
  
"Something like that," Thomas frowned. "We've got to pull our boys out."  
  
"Tom," Frank began, but Thomas continued his rant.  
  
"No! We're playing this chess game with the Soviets. And this whole 'domino effect' theory. What the hell is Nixon thinking? Just watch. Cambodia and Laos will go running to the Communists. We drove them there! Hanoi is playing us for fools in Paris, while we send our troops to fight in a war our own country doesn't believe in any longer!"  
  
"If this was supposed to make sense, we'd be in the Oval Office instead of Nixon," Frank replied.  
  
Thomas buried his head in more reports. Outside the window, storm clouds enveloped the capital. Nixon was up for re-election next month ... 


	5. CH. 5

[Liberty Drive parade route, downtown Metropolis]  
  
Lex noticed that his father looked away when the U.S. troops marched past the reviewing stand.  
  
"What happened then, Dad," Lex asked. "I know you were there. Luthor Industries began its Far East expansion. Bruce Wayne made sure that the whole country knows about his father's work in Washington. Don't you want your side of the story to be told?"  
  
"Thomas Wayne served his country by avoiding the draft and spin doctoring for the State Department," Lionel bristled. "I gave the Pentagon and the CIA the tools to win the war. Saigon would have been the capital of a free and democratic Vietnam, if Nixon and his cronies didn't botch it up!"  
  
"Didn't you pour millions into the Nixon's 1968 electoral war chest?" Lex smirked. Lionel avoided the question with a timely cellphone call from a business associate.  
  
Something must have happened, Lex wondered. Something that drove that final wedge between Lionel Luthor and Thomas Wayne. My father returned to the States in 1973, as the last U.S. troops pulled out of Indochina. With the Paris peace treaty's ink barely dry, work for an arms manufacturer would have dried up.  
  
Perhaps that was when the final act of this rivalry played out ...  
  
[Washington, D.C., 1975]  
  
Thomas Wayne worked under a new president now ... Gerald Ford. The bloodletting of the Watergate scandal had claimed Richard Nixon and threatened to destroy the Republican party forever. Thomas' mentor, Frank, suffered a major heart attack mere days after the final pullout of American troops from Vietnam in March, 1973.  
  
The Secretary of State had asked Thomas to join their Middle Eastern crisis centre. He turned it down. Pentagon number-crunchers were suggesting that between 40,000-50,000 U.S. soldiers died in Vietnam. If he tried hard enough, this peace treaty may finally make sense of this chaos.  
  
As the weeks and months passed, news from Indochina became worse. Intelligence reports suggested that as many as 200,000 South Vietnamese troops had deserted the frontlines last year, returning to their families. All this, even though Congress had pumped $700 million into Saigon's forces. Hanoi was quiet these last few months.  
  
Uncomfortably quiet.  
  
The followers of Ho Chih Minh's vision had spent the past few months on tedious logistics work: roads, bridges. Even as the South Vietnamese violated the Paris treaty and attacked loyal Communist villages, they said and did little.  
  
They would talk now. And the world would hear.  
  
Frantic reports from American embassies in Hong Kong, Manila and Tokyo conveyed the disturbing news. The Communists were invading South Vietnam. From the Central Highlands northeast of Saigon they began. The dreaded Red wave that Kennedy, Johnson and Nixon had failed to contain.  
  
South Vietnam could not hold back the flood. The imperial city of Hue fell in March. They overran Da Nang, the former U.S. Marine base soon after. The billions wasted on secret operations, weaponry ... the propping-up of a Saigon government that now complained of American betrayal. In a sense it was, since we didn't clean up the mess the French left for us two decades ago. Saigon fell in April.  
  
Vietnam would be independent. Of colonial imperialism. And now, of American capitalism.  
  
The shameful evacuation of the American embassy in Saigon left a bitter taste in Thomas' mouth. The Ford Administration was doomed. Oil crises and inflation were more difficult to combat than Communist guerrillas. Gerald Ford pardoned Nixon, effectively sealing his fate as a stop-gap president. Vietnam, Watergate, the pointless turf wars between the Pentagon, the CIA, the White House and the State Department. To what end ...  
  
The lives of those poor and disadvantaged who had no choice but to fight a war that nobody wanted.  
  
Nobody but the warhawks, the glory-hounds and the opportunists. Was this the America I wanted for my family? Martha had talked of returning to Gotham City soon. "Once I've cleared my plate here," he had answered.  
  
Thomas descended the steps of Capitol Hill after updating the Congressional committee for Southeast Asia. Lionel Luthor, CEO of manufacturing juggernaut Luthor Industries, stood near a fountain in The Mall with his loyal cadre of senators and congressmen.  
  
Lucius Fox, Wayne's college buddy and vice-president of Wayne Enterprises, had waged a lobbying campaign against Luthor Industries' arms trading excesses. Disturbing reports surfaced that Lionel Luthor was marketing his deadly wares in North Africa, the Eastern bloc and eager dictators in the Far East. Lionel had hoped that Wayne would at least put a lid on his entanglement with the Phoenix Program.  
  
He would not. "My editors may print what they view as news," Thomas insisted, "This is America. We don't gag the press." The American economy was in shambles, thanks to inflation and climbing oil prices. Lionel Luthor was feeling the pinch and chose to blame the Waynes for everything.  
  
Lionel noticed his mortal enemy alone. "Excuse me, gentlemen," Lionel graciously nodded, "We'll discuss strategy for the forthcoming presidential election tomorrow."  
  
"Thomas Wayne, as I live and breathe," Lionel smirked.  
  
"We have nothing to discuss," Thomas stated curtly.  
  
Lionel laughed. "Still bitter over the Phoenix Program? Come on, it's ancient history! This isn't Lexington-we're not on opposing sides here. You fought a valiant battle in the hallowed halls of the State Department, trying to make that little peace treaty fly. You should have known better than to trust Communists. They know nothing of the true value of things. Unlike you and I."  
  
"I'm nothing like you," Thomas stated, "Thanks to you and your warhawk buddies, Laos and Cambodia have run to the Reds."  
  
"Communist. Capitalist. They're merely labels," Lionel scoffed, "Money is the true 'shot heard round the world'. We, the captains of industry, are the true patriots. There's no right or wrong. Only winners and losers ..."  
  
"I've been to Arlington Cemetary. I've seen the crosses. I've been to CIA HQ in Langley ... and stars of honour with no names. I know your handiwork. You're a profiteer. You think of nothing but your own self-aggrandizement! Don't pretend to identify yourself with me."  
  
"You bastard," Lionel snarled, "That's the problem with you Waynes. Always putting yourselves on a pedestal. Edward Wayne, the great patriot who took Fort Gotham. You forget to remind people that your forefather's men fired upon his own brother, a redcoat on the other side. And your father, the federal G-man who took down the Atlantic City gangsters ... and did FBI Director Hoover's dirty work ..."  
  
"That's a lie!" Thomas declared. "Your trashy tabloids don't bother me. You know full well I could bankrupt your media empire with one libel suit."  
  
"But you won't," Lionel grinned, "because the Waynes are what America would like to believe is the ideal. Wayne, the legendary star-spangled family. Who knows what true skeletons I would uncover if you dared to pick a fight with me. That your daddy was trading secrets to the Communists. And your friend, the charge d'affaires in Tokyo. Verrry attractive. I'm sure Martha would think she was ..."  
  
"Go to hell!" Thomas barked. "If anyone places himself in the spotlight, it's you. Unlike you, I know your skeletons. I'm sure Hoover's file on your family would make great summer reading. Bootlegging during Prohibition. Questionable investments in Vegas casinos. And that trip you took to Istanbul? Contacts in Iran ... I'm sure your friends on Capitol Hill would prefer not to know that, lest you cut their campaign lines of credit ..."  
  
"So we are at a check, a personal cold war as it were," Lionel pulled out a cigarrette. "We both have enough half-truths and suspicions to bury each other's reputations forever. A light?" Thomas lit his rival's cigarrette, then lit one for himself.  
  
Two enemies sharing a smoke. How surreal.  
  
"I remember Concord," Lionel puffed, "My ancestor Elijah spared Edward's life that day ... and he lived to see Cornwallis surrender at Yorkton. Washington sent Elijah to Fort Orange ..."  
  
"... and live to see his glory snatched away in the peace treaty," Thomas continued, "never to taste the destiny that should be his. You've been harping about this 'robbed' fate for years. Learn a new tune."  
  
"The Luthors are what America truly is," Lionel stated, "forever in pursuit of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. We have no delusions about this fantasyland America you seem to harbour. Surely after Bobby Kennedy, King and Kent State, you know that!"  
  
"But you don't want to do anything about it," Thomas snapped back, "even though you have the power to do so. You collect antiquities of great conquerors. Alexander the Great. Julius Caesar. Napoleon Bonaparte. Hoping that their glory will rub off on you. You have more power now than any of them could imagine. You do nothing. Goddamn coward."  
  
Lionel flicked his cigarrette butt onto the pavement. "Thanks for the light. This cold war is just that. A war. Open the door just a little, and I'll destroy you. Bury your father. Poor Martha. Maybe you truly are faithful to her. If and when you're not, my people will hear about it."  
  
"Throw down the gauntlet and see what happens," Thomas challenged, "I don't forget either. Whenever you want to play this game to its conclusion, you know where to find me."  
  
Lionel hailed a cab, and left to build his international corporate empire. That night, Thomas received a call from Jimmy Carter. Several days later, Thomas agreed to work with him should the Democrats take the White House ...  
  
January, 1977. Jimmy Carter took his oath as 39th President of the United States ...  
  
[Metropolis, 2002]  
  
An aide interrupted Lionel's concentration. The official Luthor Corp. float, ablaze with purple, passed by the reviewing stand.  
  
"Sir, it's Wayne Enterprises. An urgent call, it seems," the aide remarked.  
  
"Tell Wayne to go to hell!" Lionel sneered. "I'm watching my history unfold here!"  
  
Lex shook his head in disgust. This feud ran deeper than blood, it seemed. 


	6. CH. 6

[Metro Centre Shopping Mall]  
  
Chloe and Lana grinned at each other. Sweaters and cardigans were 20% off this week. They raced to the 'Young Miss' section of Sears.  
  
Pete and Clark walked along the wide corridors of the mall. Families from suburbia sampling the urban delights of Metropolis' premiere shopping centre. Awkward teenagers trying to convey confidence in their not-quite- fitting clothes. The main foyer was a typical scene. If not for the motley crew of historical re-enactors grabbing a coffee, or resting their tired feet on a bench. Johnny Reb and Billy Yank putting aside their differences ... to try on $139 Metropolis Sharks jerseys.  
  
"Now I know we're back in 2002," Pete joked. His eyes gawked at the atrociously-priced official merchandise in SportsZone, a sporting goods franchise LuthorCorp. had purchased six months ago. "All I can afford in here is a Sharks pen!"  
  
Clark inspected the souvenir pen of the NFL's 'most exciting and fearsome' team in the conference. "Affordable ... if you call $6.99 a reasonable price!"  
  
Next stop - the electronics store. A dozen TV screens showed live coverage of the last leg of the parade. In the reviewing stand, neither Luthor could be found.  
  
"I guess the Luthors had business to take care of," Clark said.  
  
"The pursuit of wealth waits for no one, as Lex likes to say," Pete groaned.  
  
The local anchor interrupted the parade coverage. "...we're about to go live to a plaque unveiling in Gotham City ... a week from the anniversary of the murders that gripped a nation: the brutal shootings of Thomas and Martha Wayne some 20 years ago. Due to ill health, former president Jimmy Carter could not attend, but extended his best wishes in this statement - and I quote: 'In the mid-70s, America had lost its way. Vietnam, Watergate and racial upheaval haunted the American conscience. Thomas Wayne's efforts on behalf of peace re-ignited a passion for freedom that could never die. The Waynes have served America since the Revolution. They continue to serve now. The murders of Thomas and Martha hurt me deeply. I extend my prayers and wishes to Bruce Wayne on behalf of my family, and of all Americans. His father once told me he was honoured to serve in my administration. Thomas, America is honoured to call you one of its sons. God bless, signed Jimmy Carter' ..."  
  
The anchor continued, "For those of you unfamiliar with the Crime Alley murders some twenty years ago, a beat cop by the name of Constable Joe McNeil discovered young Bruce Wayne clutching the hand of his dying mother, Martha. Through the scandalous tabloid headlines, the GCPD cop stuck by Bruce. They would have dinner every fall - as a tribute to the fallen Waynes ..."  
  
A photo of -now- Inspector Joe McNeil appeared on the screen, flanked by both the Gotham City flag and Old Glory. "Inspector McNeil was shot dead two days ago, while trying to execute an arrest warrant for Georgie Giordano, an associate of racketeering kingpin Rupert Thorne. The plaque commemorates all GCPD officers who have lost their lives on duty. With the death of the inspector, the unveiling is all the more poignant ..."  
  
Bruce Wayne removed the black tarpaulin to reveal a bronze plaque embedded in a black granite monument outside Gotham's Hall of Justice.  
  
"My god," Pete gasped, "where does Bruce find the strength to go on. After everything ... Crime Alley, the tabloid mudslinging, the state custody battles ... and now this!"  
  
Clark sat on a nearby bench. "He buries it. Deep inside. Where no one can see it."  
  
"Man, that can't be good for anyone. Like a fuse ..." Pete began. "... waiting to burn." Clark feared.  
  
[Teleconference room, LuthorCorp. headquarters]  
  
The communications assistant was nervous. Lex Luthor had been ensconced in the black leather chair for the past half hour.  
  
Fixated on the huge wall monitor. Bruce Wayne was making yet another heart- wrenching display on live television. Honouring the fallen officer who found him in Crime Alley all those years ago.  
  
"Mr. Luthor will NOT like this," the impatient assistant worried, "We are having a video conference with our subsidiaries in Taiwan in 15 minutes. I don't think your father would like to start the meeting face-to-face with Wayne all over the news ...err ..., Mr. Luthor, sir."  
  
"Bruce Wayne is the son of one of America's founding families," Lex explained, "Do you realize a Wayne was there in Valley Forge, with the Brits poised to wipe away the Revolution forever? A Wayne crippled Confederate forces at Gotham, sending them reeling to Gettysburg! Jimmy Carter, of all people, considers the late Thomas Wayne a legend. A legend! Like the Luthors."  
  
He stood up and faced the assistant. "I'm pretty sure this videoconference won't be making history, whether or not it starts on time. The broadcast stays."  
  
"Yes, sir, Mr. Luthor, sir," the assistant shuddered, "I'll just go and get the board ...umm... I'll just go ..." She scurried out of the room.  
  
Lex rested his elbows on the marble table and focused on the broadcast. My father thinks that he is the most powerful man in America. LuthorCorp sprawls across almost every industrial sector: manufacturing, pharmaceuticals, biochemical engineering, genetics. LuthorCorp. offices can be found from Caracas to Moscow.  
  
The Wayne and Luthor dynasties had common ground. The industrial revolution brought tremendous growth. As the railroads, mines and factories stretched across the continent, so did the Wayne and Luthor empires - the 'civil' dispute in the 1860s notwithstanding. Rumours persisted that both the Waynes and Luthors turned a blind eye to rampant booze-running during Prohibition in the 20s- using company trucks to smuggle liquor from distilleries in Montreal and Toronto to all points south of the Great Lakes.  
  
Fortune favours the brave, Lex smirked, and to the brave go immense fortunes. Pearl Harbor would propel the Wayne and Luthor companies into their patriotic duty as war-makers. Wayne-built jeeps rolled across France and Germany, as the Third Reich evaporated with Adolph in a Berlin bunker. Grandfather Luthor actually saw action in the Battle of Midway as a sailor. With the post-war boom came consumerism ... and more wealth for the Waynes and Luthors.  
  
Wayne Enterprises rivalled LuthorCorp. in both scope and size. The Waynes divested themselves of their military division after the My Lai massacre in Vietnam. "Waynes do not profit on the blood of others," Lucius Fox declared at some long-forgotten presidential primary for Bobby Kennedy.  
  
Lionel Luthor, however, was more than willing to finance questionable covert operations for the CIA. In Cambodia. In Iran. In Africa. More recently, Grenada, Nicaragua and Colombia. If he could get away with it, he'd play both sides, while counting the profits of war-making.  
  
Blood-letting.  
  
Bruce remained stone-faced during the bagpiper's lament for the fallen officers. There is no doubt. He is his father's son.  
  
Lex flinched. And I am mine. You're wrong, dear old dad. You are not the most powerful man in America. Bruce placed a hand on his heart as the 'Star-Spangled Banner' played. The officers' widows wept, dabbing their eyes with tissues in gloved hands.  
  
Bruce Wayne is power incarnate. He could run for mayor, or state assemblyman. Once he's old enough, perhaps governor. He imagined a 40- something Bruce in a ticker-taped convention hall ..."...I, Bruce Wayne, do accept your nomination as president of the United States ..."  
  
That is his destiny. If he could only realize it. Bruce was a friend, but Lex still harboured some envy. Resentment that the public adulation, the praise - all of it - belonged to a Wayne.  
  
Instead of a Luthor.  
  
Lionel Luthor strolled into the conference room, followed by the nervous communications assistant and the grey haired board of directors. Dad's puppets, Lex sneered to himself.  
  
"Oh, Lex," Lionel remarked, "I've reviewed your proposal for the corporate plaza. Converting the site into a public space. Designations as a national historic site, and such. I presented it to our allies in council. And Senator Callahan ..."  
  
"The construction of the corporate plaza would generate billions in revenue and create thousands of jobs, mere months from the congressional elections," Lex replied, "and that is why you intend to proceed with the plaza."  
  
"How perceptive, son," Lionel gloated. He noticed Bruce on the screen, consoling an officer's widow. "Bruce, the poor baby left in Crime Alley. Spare me the public flagellation, Wayne!" He clicked the remote.  
  
Lex stood up. "Surely, you not so bitter than you can't sympathize. The anniversary of his parents' death is a week away!"  
  
"Now, on to our business in the Far East," Lionel sat at the head of the table, "Mr. Schmidt, you have the projections for LuthorTech Asia?"  
  
"Bruce is my friend," Lex insisted, "I know that I can trust him. Far more than any of your paid courtiers."  
  
Lionel peered at a report through his reading glasses. "Will that be all, Alexander Luthor, managing executive for LuthorCorp., one of America's Fortune 500 companies?" The corporate courtiers stared at Lex.  
  
Lex gestured at them to proceed. "You were about to discuss our Far East growth. Mr. Schmidt, if you please, entertain us." The directors droned on about quarterly reports, the decline of the Yen, the potential of their Malyasian factories.  
  
In the distance, Lex could see the excavation site of old Fort Orange. After the archaeological students from Metropolis U. unearthed all the important artifacts, LuthorCorp. would seal the site in a tomb of concrete and steel. Forever burying the shame of Elijah Luthor's failure to take this fort from the redcoats.  
  
I haven't forgotten what you've just done, father, Lex frowned to himself. I remember what happened here 200-odd years ago.  
  
One doesn't create a legacy by burying old wounds. If my plan went through, I would have exalted Luthor history. One that, in some cases, surpassed that of the respected Waynes.  
  
The capitulation of the British garrison at Fort Gotham was won by the stroke of a pen, not at the tip of a bayonet. A Luthor lost at the Battle of Gotham in the Civil War, but at least Col. Nathaniel Luthor had his "bloody affair" to mark his place in American myth.  
  
Later that afternoon, the board of directors held the vote to approve or reject the corporate plaza development. The final tally was 12 in favour. One against. Let the record show that I cast my vote against this cowering display of political weakness, Lex mused.  
  
Lex remembered one late-summer afternoon, when some student uncovered the faded Union Jack amidst the earth and mud of the excavation. Plastered across the front page of the Daily Planet. A symbol of British defiance.  
  
And Luthor disgrace. There's no glory in fighting a battle, when the war was already won at Yorktown.  
  
[1782, Fort Orange, deep in Indian territory, early spring]  
  
The siege had lasted two weeks. Their supplies should be running out. Elijah Luthor, commander of the Continental Expeditionary Regiment, had begun the bombardment of Fort Orange two days ago. He rained hellfire over the walls. He could hear the frantic screams.  
  
George Washington wanted to "lance this festering boil". British troops, Loyalist militia and their Indian allies used the fort to resupply and rearm. From there, they could attack frontier settlements along the Great Lakes. With the potential for sweeping across New York, Kentucky and the other patriot colonies. He would attempt an escalade of the gates tomorrow, thus wiping the stain of British rule away forever.  
  
A courier in a red uniform galloped towards them from the rear. He carried a white flag of truce.  
  
"Major Luthor," the courier addressed him formally, "His Majesty, George III, extends a hand in friendship to the commander of Continental forces in these territories."  
  
Elijah raised an eyebrow in suspicion. "As you can see, I am about to take this fort on behalf of the Congress of Philadelphia. You may watch, if you wish."  
  
"I'm afraid you misunderstand," the courier beamed, "Lord Cornwallis surrendered his army to General Washington. Last year, the battle at Yorktown was decisive. In your favour. Even now, your statesmen are negotiating a treaty in Paris. The war is over! You, sir, will have a country of your own. A new nation, by God!"  
  
The grizzled veterans, who had marched thousands of miles to carry the fight to the redcoats, threw their hats in the air. Some cheered - many wept.  
  
Elijah removed his hat. Peace. Finally, after years of bitter fighting. Families torn apart. "I grant you leave to inform the fort's garrison of your news!" Elijah announced.  
  
Tonight, he would welcome the enemy as a guest. To toast the birth of one indivisible nation under God.  
  
And bid adieu to his one, last chance for epic glory ... 


	7. Conclusion

[1782, dusk, American camp outside Fort Orange]  
  
The celebrations began. Fiddlers played. Raucous cheers. Major Luthor could hear the British pipers sing their tunes from the Highlands. A visitor would have assumed that the redcoats had won.  
  
Perhaps His Majesty's armies lost this War of Independence. But this garrison ... this pitiful outpost of imperial power ... had won a victory. Even now, the Union Jack fluttered defiantly in the crisp March air.  
  
The British courier returned to the officers' tent. He had no need for a flag of truce now. He shook hands with men who, not four hours ago, were prepared to put the entire garrison to the sword. Now, they were friends.  
  
Elijah snickered. A friendship enforced by this treaty in Paris.  
  
The courier took off his hat in a grand flourish. "Major, the fort sends you its greetings ... and an invitation." He cleared his throat. "On behalf of the senior infantry and cavalry officers of His Majesty's garrison at Fort Orange, Colonel Fitzgerald extends an invitation to a festive occasion."  
  
Elijah smiled politely. He did not wish to go. The men huddled beside the fires outside. Those who fought at Saratoga, in the Carolinas, even in Lexington so long ago ... they deserved to rejoice. Their suffering is over.  
  
"Please extend my thanks for the colonel's gracious offering, but I must decline," Elijah insisted. "My officers have leave to join you." The courier nodded and was about to step outside the tent.  
  
"Any news from the front?" Elijah asked. "...Yorkton, I mean."  
  
The courier paused. "Washington captured an entire army. He outmanoeuvred Cornwallis. That officer, Wayne, delivered the coup de grace to any lingering counterattack on our part. The Virginians are calling him a hero. A hero of the Revolution."  
  
"A hero, eh?" Elijah muttered. Seven years ago, young Edward Wayne begged for mercy.  
  
I granted it, he thought. Now, this Wayne has won the favour of the Congress, of Washington ...  
  
Of America.  
  
Elijah sat in his tent and drank a glass of rum. "God bless America," he toasted, then drank quickly. No need to savour the taste. Lost glory had none.  
  
An explosion rattled the morning slumber. Not unexpected, since the British had warned them that they were destroying any "miscellaneous" supplies. Too much of a burden for their baggage train, they said. Diplomatic language to hide the reality: they wanted to deny the Yankees any valuable ammunition, gunpowders, stocks and equipment.  
  
The pipers led the way, playing some light-hearted lament for a lost love. This New World, this land of plenty - it now belonged to the Yankees.  
  
Let the dance begin, Elijah pondered. Colonel Fitzgerald took off his hat and bowed in deference to the fort's 'conqueror'.  
  
"On behalf of His Majesty, George III ... I, Colonel Fitzgerald, of the Fifth Regiment of Foot, do beg leave and free passage through these territories."  
  
Elijah also bowed, well aware of his new role as America's ambassador. "I, Major Luthor, of the Continental Army of America, accept your terms. You relinquish Fort Orange and its defenses. We grant you the right to withdraw unmolested."  
  
The regimental flag and the English banner flew proudly before the Stars and Stripes of the patriots. "Will you be returning to England?" Elijah asked.  
  
"We are to return to our bases in the Canadas," the colonel mounted his horse," A frigate will take us to Montreal, where further orders await."  
  
"Then I wish you godspeed ... friend," Elijah remarked. A lone private barged through the ranks.  
  
"No! We should fight them!" the young soldier demanded, "Are you not Englishmen? You dined with them last night, yet they offer no apologies for their offences in New England?"  
  
The colonel moved to strike the impudent lad, but several soldiers shielded the man.  
  
"The war is over," Elijah stated, "America is no longer yours to command."  
  
The soldier spat before the major. "You traitorous bastard! I was there, seven years ago, when your men captured Concord. I was there when you torched the house of Edward Wayne, God curse him! I hid in the woods as your men ..."  
  
"Who - who are you?" Elijah wondered.  
  
The soldier sobbed. "... Robert Cartwright, Massachusetts Loyalist militia. You speak of honour, but showed none to my father!"  
  
Elijah's mind raced back to the past. To Concord. His men had captured a group of Loyalist militamen. General Gage's men were pressing hard. He recalled giving an order, amidst the smoke and musket fire. "Make an example of them," he had ordered.  
  
"Tarred and feathered, he was," Robert cried. "I was but nine! I'm glad this wretched war is over. To know that yours is a hollow victory. To see your glory denied. May you never know the friendship my father once gladly gave to strangers."  
  
His comrades tried to comfort him. "May you never know happiness, Luthor. Damn you to hell! Damn you."  
  
Elijah looked up at the colonel, who scowled and abruptly ordered his men forth. Drummers and pipers played. This time, a defiantly proud tune. This was not a weakened army on its last legs. He had seen those glares before.  
  
In battle.  
  
Two days ago, he would have welcomed the challenge. The chance to fight. Now, those same glares reminded him of unfulfilled hopes.  
  
A redcoat army, bristling with bayonets, marched away. He could do nothing but watch. And regret.  
  
[2002, Outside the Metropolis Hilton]  
  
A continuous stream of students filled the yellow buses. Schools from across the state prepared to leave the big city for the dull routine of exams, football games and proms.  
  
Chloe felt depressed. "But we haven't seen the Museum of Modern Art, the observation desk atop the Daily Planet Building ..."  
  
"Geez, the city isn't going anywhere, Sullivan," Pete remarked, "there'll be other field trips."  
  
"So, what did you learn from 'Heritage Days', Clark," Lana asked. Clark didn't notice, as he browsed through the Daily Planet.  
  
He slammed the paper on the pavement. "I can't believe it!"  
  
Chloe picked up the front page. "What is it Clark?" She skimmed the headlines. 'LUTHOR CORP. BOARD UNANIMOUS: CORPORATE PLAZA APPROVED.'  
  
"I don't understand," Lana appeared puzzled. "Fort Orange was the birthplace of the Luthor legacy. Why would they want to bury it?"  
  
"Money. Politics. Greed. Take your pick. I'm not all that surprised," Pete replied, "Lex backs daddy dearest. Nothing new there."  
  
Lex ran down the street. "I blew off a meeting to see you guys off. Are you sure you need to go back today?"  
  
Clark slammed the Planet against Lex's chest. "How could you? Fort Orange is as much a part of your history as it is America's. To pave it over like a parking lot ... why?!"  
  
"Clark, let me explain," Lex took Clark aside. "I voted against the deal. I would have made the site a new Smithsonian. Nothing would have stopped me."  
  
"The Planet says otherwise!" Clark fumed.  
  
"It's not a clear-cut as that," Lex explained, "Senator Callahan is a powerful man. He sits on all the congressional committees that matter. He could be tapped for governor in a few years' time. He needs this plaza project for the November elections. That means he's in our debt. And make no mistake, I intend to call him up on that debt one day."  
  
"You'd bury your family's historical birthright ... to curry political favours?" Clark snapped, "So the whole museum show was just a ploy ... to soften the edges of the Luthor reputation."  
  
"There were dozens of private bidders who would have paid millions for those artifacts," Lex insisted, "I made sure the museum got them. They don't belong just to the Luthors. They belong to all of us."  
  
Clark began to storm away, but Lex caught up with him. "For the record, our press people suggested that we report the vote as unanimous. The Asian markets were opening up in a few hours and they feared my dissension would rattle investor confidence. I have my responsibilities, too!"  
  
"Yeah - to yourself!" Clark blasted. "I hope Metropolis enjoys your new corporate plaza. I'm sure Elijah Luthor would be thrilled." He quickly jumped into the school bus.  
  
Lex watched the Smallville High bus leave the city. I'll be able to smooth things over once I get a chance to fully explain.  
  
I hope.  
  
[Luthor Hall, Metropolis Museum, 9:10 p.m.]  
  
Lex ushered his guest into the gallery. "This painting dates from 1779. There's George Washington. And my forefather, Major Elijah Luthor. The officer to the rear may seem ... familiar."  
  
The guest inspected the painting. "Some of the painting is chipped. Nothing that a professional restoration can't repair. The frame ... solid oak. The signature is authentic. It's the genuine article ..." He paused.  
  
"Is that ...?"  
  
"Captain Edward Wayne of the Continental Army. Our historians suspect that the portrait was sketched for a New England paper. Just before Elijah and Edward parted ways. My ancestor carried on the fight in the South, ..."  
  
"... while my ancestor rejected family bonds to forge his own destiny ..." Bruce Wayne stepped closer to this relic of his past.  
  
"Look, it's late. Why don't I put you up at the Ritz-Carlton. The penthouse," Lex offered. "I'd have you stay over at the estate, but ..."  
  
"Yes," Bruce noted, "But." Lionel Luthor.  
  
"The cathedral is holding a memorial service for Thomas and Martha on Friday. I plan to attend," Lex noted.  
  
"Lionel would be displeased," Bruce mumbled.  
  
"He's never been pleased at anything I've done," Lex winced, "Nothing I do or say will persuade him to turn over a new leaf. Especially on all things Wayne."  
  
Bruce studied the features of his patriotic ancestor. "I'll be returning to Gotham City tonight. Some loose ends, before ..."  
  
The anniversary. Lex dared not mention it. I could never fathom the despair he suffers every fall, he thought.  
  
"Elijah Luthor and Edward Wayne fought side by side in the Revolution," Lex declared, "Spilled blood. Risked all. Driven to surmount obstacles. That's what sets our families apart from others."  
  
"Our families also fought against each other. Battle of Gotham, 1862 ..." Bruce mused.  
  
"... and that Phoenix Program, 1968 to god knows when ..." Lex added.  
  
Bruce grinned. "Is Lionel still griping about that? Talk about beating a dead horse." The hall lights had dimmed. They would be closing the museum for the night.  
  
"I'll be a moment," Bruce stared at the painting.  
  
"Of course," Lex walked away, "I'll tell Alfred to pull up to the front."  
  
Bruce sat on a bench. In the display case, the Yankee musket still crossed against a British flag.  
  
Edward, I wish I could possess that strength of conviction. To forsake those you cared for most. For a principle, an ideal.  
  
A purpose.  
  
Like you, I must make that choice alone.  
  
Lex peered into the darkened hall. There sat the man who could change history, like his famous forefathers. Like Thomas Wayne.  
  
Should he seize that destiny - to become a great man - he could be my strongest ally.  
  
Or a merciless foe. How many ... how many publishers, corporate raiders and politicians have dared to slander his name? He could not recall - they all folded, failed or crumbled.  
  
Bruce stood up. "Time to go."  
  
"Our destinies await," Lex replied.  
  
They traded glances. With one common thought.  
  
I expect my fate to be better than yours ...  
  
... I will make it so.  
  
THE END 


End file.
